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Best Famous Anna Akhmatova Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Anna Akhmatova poems. This is a select list of the best famous Anna Akhmatova poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Anna Akhmatova poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Anna Akhmatova poems.

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by Anna Akhmatova | |

I Dont Like Flowers...

I don't like flowers - they do remind me often
Of funerals, of weddings and of balls;
Their presence on tables for a dinner calls.
But sub-eternal roses' ever simple charm Which was my solace when I was a child, Has stayed - my heritage - a set of years behind, Like Mozart's ever-living music's hum.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Lots Wife

Holy Lot  was a-going behind  God's angel,
He seemed  huge and bright on a hill, huge and black.
But the heart of his wife whispered stronger and stranger: "It's not very late, you have time to look back At these rose turrets of your native Sodom, The square where you sang, and the yard where you span, The windows looking from your cozy home Where you bore children for your dear man.
" She looked -- and her eyes were instantly bound By pain -- they couldn't see any more at all: Her fleet feet grew into the stony ground, Her body turned into a pillar of salt.
Who'll mourn her as one of Lot's family members? Doesn't she seem the smallest of losses to us? But deep in my heart I will always remember One who gave her life up for one single glance.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

And As Its Going...

An as it's going often at love's breaking,
The ghost of first days came again to us,
The silver willow through window then stretched in,
The silver beauty of her gentle branches.
The bird began to sing the song of light and pleasure To us, who fears to lift looks from the earth, Who are so lofty, bitter and intense, About days when we were saved together.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Alexander By Thebes

I think, the king was fierce, though young,
When he proclaimed, “You’ll level Thebes with ground.
” And the old chief perceived this city proud, He’d seen in times that are in sagas sung.
Set all to fire! The king listed else The towers, the gates, the temples – rich and thriving… But sank in thoughts, and said with lighted face, “You just provide the Bard Home’s surviving.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

The Grey-Eyed King

Hail! Hail to thee, o, immovable pain!
The young grey-eyed king had been yesterday slain.
This autumnal evening was stuffy and red.
My husband, returning, had quietly said, "He'd left for his hunting; they carried him home; They'd found him under the old oak's dome.
I pity the queen.
He, so young, past away!.
.
.
During one night her black hair turned to grey.
" He found his pipe on a warm fire-place, And quietly left for his usual race.
Now my daughter will wake up and rise -- Mother will look in her dear grey eyes.
.
.
And poplars by windows rustle as sing, "Never again will you see your young king.
.
.
"


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Along the Hard Crust...

Along the hard crust of deep snows,
To the secret, white house of yours,
So gentle and quiet – we both
Are walking, in silence half-lost.
And sweeter than all songs, sung ever, Are this dream, becoming the truth, Entwined twigs’ a-nodding with favor, The light ring of your silver spurs.
.
.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Crucifix

I
This greatist hour was hallowed and thandered
By  angel's choirs;  fire melted sky.
He asked his Father:"Why am I abandoned.
.
.
?" And told his Mother: "Mother, do not cry.
.
.
" II Magdalena struggled, cried and moaned.
Piter sank into the stone trance.
.
.
Only there, where Mother stood alone, None has dared cast a single glance.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Willow

 And I grew up in patterned tranquillity, 
In the cool nursery of the young century.
And the voice of man was not dear to me, But the voice of the wind I could understand.
But best of all the silver willow.
And obligingly, it lived With me all my life; it's weeping branches Fanned my insomnia with dreams.
And strange!--I outlived it.
There the stump stands; with strange voices Other willows are conversing Under our, under those skies.
And I am silent.
.
.
As if a brother had died.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Celebrate

 Celebrate our anniversary – can’t you see
tonight the snowy night of our first winter
comes back again in every road and tree -
that winter night of diamantine splendour.
Steam is pouring out of yellow stables, the Moika river’s sinking under snow, the moonlight’s misted as it is in fables, and where we are heading – I don’t know.
There are icebergs on the Marsovo Pole.
The Lebyazh’ya’s crazed with crystal art.
.
.
.
.
Whose soul can compare with my soul, if joy and fear are in my heart? - And if your voice, a marvellous bird’s, quivers at my shoulder, in the night, and the snow shines with a silver light, warmed by a sudden ray, by your words?


by Anna Akhmatova | |

I Dont Know If Youre Alive Or Dead

 I don't know if you're alive or dead.
Can you on earth be sought, Or only when the sunsets fade Be mourned serenely in my thought? All is for you: the daily prayer, The sleepless heat at night, And of my verses, the white Flock, and of my eyes, the blue fire.
No-one was more cherished, no-one tortured Me more, not Even the one who betrayed me to torture, Not even the one who caressed me and forgot.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

March Elegy

 I have enough treasures from the past
to last me longer than I need, or want.
You know as well as I .
.
.
malevolent memory won't let go of half of them: a modest church, with its gold cupola slightly askew; a harsh chorus of crows; the whistle of a train; a birch tree haggard in a field as if it had just been sprung from jail; a secret midnight conclave of monumental Bible-oaks; and a tiny rowboat that comes drifting out of somebody's dreams, slowly foundering.
Winter has already loitered here, lightly powdering these fields, casting an impenetrable haze that fills the world as far as the horizon.
I used to think that after we are gone there's nothing, simply nothing at all.
Then who's that wandering by the porch again and calling us by name? Whose face is pressed against the frosted pane? What hand out there is waving like a branch? By way of reply, in that cobwebbed corner a sunstruck tatter dances in the mirror.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Memory Of Sun

 Memory of sun seeps from the heart.
Grass grows yellower.
Faintly if at all the early snowflakes Hover, hover.
Water becoming ice is slowing in The narrow channels.
Nothing at all will happen here again, Will ever happen.
Against the sky the willow spreads a fan The silk's torn off.
Maybe it's better I did not become Your wife.
Memory of sun seeps from the heart.
What is it? -- Dark? Perhaps! Winter will have occupied us In the night.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Solitude

 So many stones have been thrown at me,
That I'm not frightened of them anymore,
And the pit has become a solid tower,
Tall among tall towers.
I thank the builders, May care and sadness pass them by.
From here I'll see the sunrise earlier, Here the sun's last ray rejoices.
And into the windows of my room The northern breezes often fly.
And from my hand a dove eats grains of wheat.
.
.
As for my unfinished page, The Muse's tawny hand, divinely calm And delicate, will finish it.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

The Sentence

 And the stone word fell
On my still-living breast.
Never mind, I was ready.
I will manage somehow.
Today I have so much to do: I must kill memory once and for all, I must turn my soul to stone, I must learn to live again-- Unless .
.
.
Summer's ardent rustling Is like a festival outside my window.
For a long time I've foreseen this Brilliant day, deserted house.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Twenty-First. Night. Monday

 Twenty-first.
Night.
Monday.
Silhouette of the capitol in darkness.
Some good-for-nothing -- who knows why -- made up the tale that love exists on earth.
People believe it, maybe from laziness or boredom, and live accordingly: they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting, and when they sing, they sing about love.
But the secret reveals itself to some, and on them silence settles down.
.
.
I found this out by accident and now it seems I'm sick all the time.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Under Her Dark Veil

 Under her dark veil she wrung her hands.
"Why are you so pale today?" "Because I made him drink of stinging grief Until he got drunk on it.
How can I forget? He staggered out, His mouth twisted in agony.
I ran down not touching the bannister And caught up with him at the gate.
I cried: 'A joke! That's all it was.
If you leave, I'll die.
' He smiled calmly and grimly And told me: 'Don't stand here in the wind.
' "


by Anna Akhmatova | |

I Wrung My Hands

 I wrung my hands under my dark veil.
.
.
"Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?" -- Because I have made my loved one drunk with an astringent sadness.
I'll never forget.
He went out, reeling; his mouth was twisted, desolate.
.
.
I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters, and followed him as far as the gate.
And shouted, choking: "I meant it all in fun.
Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain.
" He smiled at me -- oh so calmly, terribly -- and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"


by Anna Akhmatova | |

You Will Hear Thunder

 You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms.
The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.
That day in Moscow, it will all come true, when, for the last time, I take my leave, And hasten to the heights that I have longed for, Leaving my shadow still to be with you.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

White Night

 There will be thunder then.
Remember me.
Say ‘ She asked for storms.
’ The entire world will turn the colour of crimson stone, and your heart, as then, will turn to fire.
That day, in Moscow, a true prophecy, when for the last time I say goodbye, soaring to the heavens that I longed to see, leaving mI haven't locked the door, Nor lit the candles, You don't know, don't care, That tired I haven't the strength To decide to go to bed.
Seeing the fields fade in The sunset murk of pine-needles, And to know all is lost, That life is a cursed hell: I've got drunk On your voice in the doorway.
I was sure you'd come back.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Thunder

 There will be thunder then.
Remember me.
Say ‘ She asked for storms.
’ The entire world will turn the colour of crimson stone, and your heart, as then, will turn to fire.
That day, in Moscow, a true prophecy, when for the last time I say goodbye, soaring to the heavens that I longed to see, leaving my shadow here in the sky.